


Letting Go

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clubbing, Drinking, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Handcuffs, I would say this is dominant John but what do I know, Ignores S3 & 4, It's For a Case, John Takes Control, John is also soft because that's who he is, Light Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, No Mary Morstan, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Public Display of Affection, Smut, Social Anxiety, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: 'John cocks an eyebrow his way as if his solution to their problem is completely ordinary. That what he’s suggesting is perfectly reasonable, despite the twenty-six facts to the contrary Sherlock already has in his head. It’s ludicrous and ridiculous. Absurd and dangerous.It really is the only way.'Sherlock and John pretend to be in a relationship for a case. Tropey, smutty, fast and loose use of a plot. Don't drink gin and write, kids.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 143





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> I got stuck writing a much longer and much more serious multi-chapter fic, and this was some light relief. It was supposed to be a ficlet, but it sort of ended up writing itself into something more. 
> 
> A little different characterisation wise for me, but I enjoyed writing a more confident John and slightly helpless Sherlock for a change. Set after TRF and completely ignores the existence of S3 & 4\. Got a bit dirty there towards the end, but hey. 
> 
> B x

“Well let’s just do it ourselves then”

Sherlock’s feet stop in their tracks, giving the living room rug a small break to recover from his constant tread. He watches the casual way John eases down into his armchair, folded paper in one hand and tea in the other. The press of his lips to the rim of the mug is absolutely normal, a puff of air skims from his mouth across the freshly boiled liquid, doing nothing to cool it but everything to convince Sherlock that he is, in fact, being serious.

“Do it ourselves?” He repeats. Sherlock hates repeating things.

John cocks an eyebrow his way as if his solution to their problem is completely ordinary. That what he’s suggesting is perfectly reasonable, despite the twenty-six facts to the contrary Sherlock already has in his head. It’s ludicrous and ridiculous. Absurd and dangerous.

It really is the only way.

“I don’t see why not” The older man continues, straightening out his paper with one sure flick of his wrist.

Sherlock can see why not. Can feel it, tremble once along the muscle of his arms as he brackets his hips in consideration. They’re good, right now. Finally. After months of apologies and clipped words, John treading carefully in his shadow like Sherlock could disappear again at any moment. He explained, giving as many truths as he could without telling him everything, and John still hated him for a bit. For a good while longer than Sherlock had predicted. Then eventually, on an unsuspecting Tuesday, things shifted again. Hunched over a microscope, he’d only noticed John’s presence in the lab at Bart’s when a box of noodles was shoved under his nose. It nearly ruined his experiment but John was there, willingly, in the building he thought he’d watched his friend jump from. Not smiling, but not looking like he wanted to run, either.

Nothing can be allowed to ruin that, the extremely thin plastic wrap that holds them together now. Sometimes it twists and stretches, but it’s strong enough to hold out, eventually relaxing back into its original shape. Just tethering them there, connected as they always have been. Most days it feels too good to be true and too painful to be good, all at the same time.

“I’m not sure you’re that proficient an actor, John”

Which is true. John once tried to convince a doorman that they were there to do an audit, gave up halfway through his speech and knocked the brute out with the hilt of his gun instead. Impressive, but not a great testimonial to his theatre skills. This would require something more than acting, a suspension of disbelief, a brutally realistic trick.

“You’d be surprised” John says, raising an eyebrow at the black and white print in his lap.

“Yes, I would” Sherlock counters, still standing on the poor worn out rug. “You spend the majority of your time trying to convince London of your heterosexuality –”

That catches John’s attention enough for him to lift his gaze and narrow his eyes, the beginnings of irritation clenching his jaw. It’s a certain kind of look somewhere between anger and intrigue that Sherlock sometimes likes to provoke for fun.

“ – I’m not certain you can _go the other way_ ” Sherlock finishes, purposefully stressing the last four words.

John makes a small sound in the back of his throat, obviously clearing it of something he would regret saying. Sherlock watches as he carefully folds the paper back in two, places it on the side table next to his tea, and stands. Somehow, John appears tall despite the height difference, chin lifted and never-ending eyes set on Sherlock’s own as he takes a short stride towards him. Oxygen constricts for a moment in Sherlock’s lungs and he almost jumps when John reaches to circle his left wrist, tugging it gently so he falls forwards a step. He's caught off guard as fingertips begin to trail across his bare skin, whispering along his forearm.

“I like a challenge” John counters, his voice so low Sherlock cannot be sure he’s spoken at all.

For a moment he can’t respond, any kind of reply getting lodged somewhere in his sternum. John’s fingers reach the gathered cotton at his elbows and then drop to his waist instead, slowly counting his ribs. Tiny treacherous goosebumps prickle at the skin beneath Sherlock’s shirt, betraying its interest and lack of human contact. It’s the sharp sound of his own breath Sherlock is next aware of, burning his nose as John wets his own bottom lip with the flat of his tongue.

“I can see that” Sherlock tries to say, though it comes out a broken whisper.

There’s a second where Sherlock thinks maybe John will let his wanderings fall further down, to the jut of his hip or his shirt buttons even. He doesn’t though, just rests there a little longer, regarding Sherlock with a small smile warming across his face.

“Sorted then,” John concludes, eyes flicking to his own fingertips. “We’ll pretend to be a couple and sneak our way into the club”

Sherlock can’t even remember what the antagonist is supposed to be doing or has done, now. Case details have dropped from his mind and all he’s concerned with is the slowly building fire in his belly, the churning in his stomach that nearly makes him want to throw up.

“Sounds… like a plan” He manages, trying to concentrate on counting the grey hairs of John’s crown, instead of the palm now flattening at the curve of his side.

John squeezes his hand, just once, and then moves away. The space around Sherlock is suddenly lacking, desolate like the plains of his mind after the onslaught of sensation. Still rooted to the spot he stays silent, as the other man picks up his mug and goes back to the kitchen, as if nothing has happened. Sherlock hears a rustle of plastic and a metallic twang as John puts bread in the toaster, can do nothing for an entire minute until he builds up enough courage to head to the shower.

Water cascading in rivets down his back, Sherlock traces his fingers over the ghost of John’s on his ribcage. He bites his lip and wraps a hand around himself, thinking of that brief but sure grip on his waist, and the man sat in his kitchen shoving toast into his mouth. When he comes, Sherlock has to press his forehead against the tile, screwing his eyes shut until tiny stars prickle in the darkness.

//

When they reach the Violet Club, Sherlock briefly thinks about turning back. The dark alley leading to the door reminds him of the hidden streets of Prague, passageways and seedy bars he had frequented for a few weeks undercover, back when he didn’t exist. Sherlock had consumed more alcohol in those twenty days than he had during his entire time as a student, the thought of it now bringing the memory of bile to the back of his throat.

He presses on regardless though. They have, after all, agreed to take the case, on John’s insistence. Bailing so late in the day would be unacceptable, even for him. The instigator behind Sherlock’s discomfort looks even more uneasy than he does. John’s precariously tight white t-shirt is only eclipsed by the hip hugging black jeans he wears, the outline of his phone comically visible in his pocket. His ensemble is a tad ridiculous, yet Sherlock can’t take his eyes off the pleasing sculpture of John’s biceps, slightly tanned from the relentlessly hot summer they’ve been having. Perhaps he’s been working out, Sherlock thinks. This is the first time he’s really seen John out of a long-sleeved shirt or jumper since becoming not-dead, and the changes are noticeable.

“Sherlock?” John asks, as if he’s just been saying something important.

The blank stare he gives in response clearly isn’t satisfactory. John runs a hand through his hair, obviously self-conscious. He needn’t be. Although a little try-hard, his appearance is perfect for their undercover work tonight, the sweep of John’s fringe away from his face gives him an air of confidence that distracts from his apparent nerves. The greys that have grown there in Sherlock’s absence suit him, framing his face in a way that makes Sherlock’s words stick in his throat.

“I was asking what our tactic is here,” John continues, grabbing Sherlock’s arm to stop him, a few feet away from the bouncers. “I haven’t got my Sig”

A little inconvenient, though not unexpected. Sherlock hadn’t managed to conceal any weapons on his person either, opting for similarly body emphasising dress. The slim cut black trousers he’s wearing are far too revealing, and it’s so damn warm outside, neither of them could get away with pretending to need a jacket all night. Sherlock isn’t wearing a t-shirt though. The silk shirt he has on is wine red and breathable and more expensive than John’s entire wardrobe.

“I assumed as much” Sherlock says with a smirk, flicking his gaze once across John’s form.

The doctor only rolls his eyes in response, crossing his arms defensively as he waits for instructions.

“We only need to overhear where he’s stashed the necklace,” Sherlock explains, voice low enough that passers-by can’t hear him. “From what we know about him, he’s cocky. He’ll probably drink and brag enough to let some details slip”

It really isn’t even a case at all. If not for the clientele, Sherlock would have downgraded it to a zero. Mycroft had been pushy, though, refusing to send Scotland Yard after the assailant in order to protect the client’s identity. The unfortunate man who lost his Grandmother’s heirloom in an ill-advised game of strip poker is one of his brother’s colleagues, someone with a high ranking government position that Sherlock hadn’t cared enough to pay attention to, and a desire to keep his predilection for gambling and younger men out of the papers. The older Holmes was lucky it had been a slow week. Straightforward cases of theft don’t usually interest Sherlock at all. The only persuasive element had been John’s unusual willingness to take part, the hand that had trailed slowly up Sherlock’s arm and then his waist, the living room blurring into white noise.

“I think I’ll need a few drinks myself” John admits, trying to shove his hands into his pockets and finding them unable to fit.

Perhaps a slight buzz in John’s system will ease the mild anxiety he’s failing to hide. The assertiveness he’d displayed back at Baker Street a few days ago seems to have faded away now the situation is upon them. Sherlock hums his agreement and gestures towards the entrance to the club, the bright purple neon glow beckoning them in.

As soon as they get into the main room, Sherlock finds it difficult to breathe. There’s smoke everywhere that he assumes is supposed to be atmospheric, strobe lighting and random spotlights doing nothing to help him make sense of the room. The bar is straight ahead though, and John’s already halfway there, apparently far more used to weaving his way through crowds of dancing men than Sherlock is.

The music is so loud Sherlock can feel the bass of it in his chest, hammering alongside his own pulse. John’s shouting over it to order their drinks, both of them being jostled by sweaty inebriated men, all trying to make accidental contact with someone willing. Sherlock does his best to stay as close to John as possible, side swiped by his own overwhelmed senses.

“Here you go” John says, or rather, Sherlock reads his lips, unable to distinguish words over the heavy thrum of the next song.

With hesitation he curls a hand around the suspiciously blue looking drink John has bought him, and darts his eyes around the crowd, unable to pick out any face that matches the description of their suspect. Suddenly everything is a little bit too much. Sherlock can feel sweat prickling at his brow and the stimulation of so many people in a relatively small space is beginning to make him feel sick.

He must look it, too, because John’s eyes grow concerned. Suddenly there’s a hand pulling at his own, the firm grip of John’s palm tugging him through the throng of dancers, until they reach a more secluded area at the edge of the room. They’re near the toilets now but it’s absolutely preferable, far away enough from the large speakers that Sherlock can hear his own thoughts again and doesn’t have to flinch at every unwanted touch from the strangers around them.

“Better?” John asks, attempting to look nonchalant behind a swig of his drink, but unable to conceal the worry in his eyes.

“Much,” Sherlock confirms, taking a sip of his own drink (which is apparently eighty percent sugar). “I haven’t spotted our friend yet”

“Neither have I” John agrees, seeming to relax a little as he sweeps the room again.

Sherlock follows suit, now distanced enough that his brain can form features on faces rather than just a blur of flushed skin. The outside of the club may have reminded him of Prague, but inside is the complete opposite. Sherlock had spent his time as a ghost in dingy bars filled with cigarette smoke and older men, not writhing twenty year olds and fake clouds of whatever the hell they’re breathing in right now. All at once he feels a bit out of his depth, realising they’re perhaps some of the oldest drinkers in the room. John seems to have come to the same conclusion, downing the rest of his glass in one.

“Do you need another?” Sherlock asks, raising a brow to the empty vessel in John’s hand.

“Yes, yes I do” John exhales, eyeing the bar wearily. “But I’m not going back over there”

Sherlock watches as John scans the room for alternatives, eventually spotting a bored looking man carrying a tray of shots. There’s some exchange of words and money that Sherlock can’t really make out, distracted by the hand John cups around the server’s shoulder in order to bring him close enough to hear. He takes the two tiny plastic cups that are handed to him, one pink and another such a vibrant green Sherlock wonders if it’s actually consumable.

“On three?” John asks, not waiting for Sherlock’s answer before he begins the countdown.

They both knock them back in quick succession, the sour heat jolting Sherlock’s belly as it fights against his stomach acid. He’s about to complain, when his eyes catch sight of a tall slender figure with bleach blonde hair, an unmistakable snake tattoo peeking out of the collar of his shirt and along the side of his neck.

“John – “ Sherlock gestures towards the man with a flick of his eyes, who seems to be heading through another door. “That’s our man”

“Got him” John says, following Sherlock’s gaze just as their criminal slips through into the next room.

There are two bouncers and a crowd of sweating people between them and the door. John grabs Sherlock’s hand again, pulling him along before he has a chance to argue otherwise. Although really he’s thankful, happy to be led for once, in an environment he can’t quite navigate himself.

The cursive silver sign above the door reads _The Den_ , and the two large security guards framing the entrance don’t seem happy to see them. With a start, Sherlock feels an arm wrapping around his waist, John so close and warm that he’s taken by surprise at his body’s reaction. His companion seems to have found his acting skills again, that breeze of courage emanating from John’s entire being as he speaks.

“Room for two more?” John asks, the suggestiveness to the edge of his voice making Sherlock swallow.

“We’re full” Bouncer number one replies.

“That’s a shame,” John counters, fingers slipping into his pocket to pull out a twenty. “We’re feeling flush and we were promised a show”

Sherlock can count the number of times he’s been speechless on one hand, and this certainly adds to the tally. If he was even capable of getting past John’s uncharacteristic smoothness, or the fact that he had the foresight to carry twenty pound notes in his pocket, he would still be lost for words. The strong arm around his torso knocks everything else out of his head. The bouncer takes the cash though, curling it into his large fist and opening the door for them.

A red velvet curtain hangs just beyond the first door, and as soon as John pushes it back, it feels like they’re in a different place entirely. The grip around Sherlock’s waist relaxes and John’s palm moves to the small of his back instead, both of them stilled for a moment by the scene before them.

Clearly it’s a strip bar, or at least what Sherlock imagines such a place would look like, modelled after something from the 1920s. It’s not a large room by any means, but there are two small circular platforms in the middle, each showcasing a half-naked male dancer, muscles shining in the low light. Crescent moon shaped booths line the walls, most of them taken, waiters carrying trays of whisky and champagne to their occupants. It’s quiet enough in here to perceive the shaky inhale of John’s breath, the music sensual and at a much more manageable volume than it had been in the main club.

“Can you see him?” Sherlock asks blankly, unable to articulate anything else.

“No,” John replies. “But we need to sit down, people are starting to look at us”

With that, the fingers at the small of his back press Sherlock in the direction of a free booth to their right, thankfully well placed enough that they can view most of the other tables without having to look too suspicious. Similarly, the men seated around them can also stare in return, something John is seemingly aware of, as he sits as close to Sherlock as possible.

“I’d better get an Oscar for this,” John smiles, attempting to catch Sherlock’s eye. “Or at least a BAFTA”

The man’s attempt at levity in their current circumstances is welcome, and Sherlock manages to grin back. A waiter comes their way and John yet again takes the initiative in ordering their drinks, asking for whisky this time. When the glasses arrive at their table, John doesn’t down it in one as predicted, but rather seems to use it as a shield, sipping intermittently whilst avoiding the show going on just feet away from their table.

“If you want an award, you may need to appear as if you’re enjoying yourself, John”

There are a few silent moments where John appears to contemplate whether the fake accolade is worth it, but he finally rests his whisky back on the table and relaxes a little. John wets his bottom lip and looks at Sherlock, who wishes instantly that they’d just left the club when they had the chance. In the much warmer glow of naked Edison bulbs and table lamps, John’s face is attractive and soft. Sherlock can’t ignore the moisture on his pink lips, or the slight rose on John’s cheeks as ocean blues find his own. Oxygen catches in Sherlock’s throat and he’s stuck there once again, everything else wholly unimportant in comparison.

Then, John’s eyes flick away and focus on a spot just over Sherlock’s shoulder. They follow a target and Sherlock waits until they settle again before speaking.

“The gambler?”

“In a booth opposite,” John confirms, pretending to take another drink to locate him exactly. “Seems to be with a partner”

Sherlock adjusts his gaze to quickly sweep over the pair himself, and John’s right. They’re kissing, quite passionately, pushing into each other’s space with no concern for any onlookers. In fact, now he’s had chance to take in the room, most of its occupants seem to be doing the same. They are perhaps the only two in the entire club not touching in some way, several couples on the verge of what would be deemed public indecency.

“It seems we are a bit out of place, John”

Maybe it would be easier just to leave, Sherlock thinks. Yet they can’t, they only have this one chance to solve their case before their client’s excuses for the missing jewellery dry up. Before Sherlock has a chance to work out how he’s going to communicate to John that they need to appear intimate, the man is downing his drink again and turning to face him properly.

“Yeah, you’re right. I think we might need to, um. You know –“ John darts his tongue out again, a sign of both nerves and anticipation. “Do some acting”

It doesn’t feel like make believe though, as Sherlock nods once and John crowds in closer, slipping a hand around the back of his neck and resting the other delicately on his knee.

“You can lip read better than me,” John confesses. “I’ll – you know, and you see if you can work out what they’re saying?”

John’s tone is more gentle than it had been that afternoon at Baker Street, perhaps taking into account Sherlock’s distress in the crowded room earlier. Whatever the reason, it steadies the tremor of electricity buzzing under Sherlock’s skin, dulls the sharp of it to a more pleasant hum, as he silently agrees to the plan.

All he can do is circulate the stuffy air in and out of his lungs as John leans into him, the smooth of his chin coming to rest somewhere on Sherlock’s collarbone, face hidden in the curve of his neck. And although Sherlock can’t hear anything now but his own blood in his ears, can’t feel his own hands or feet on the ground because John’s breath is hot against his skin, it really is the best position to observe their suspect. Sherlock tries to focus, get his brain to pinpoint on the man opposite them instead of the one brushing his nose under his jaw.

“Getting anything?” John murmurs against his neck, lips brushing the flesh there with his words.

If he could concentrate at all, for just a second, Sherlock could probably read their whole conversation. That accidental touch of a warm mouth against his skin is entirely too distracting though, all senses zeroing in on the slightly chapped yet soft flesh, the tickle of John’s hair at his earlobe.

Sherlock shifts a little in his seat, hoping the movement will shake the interference from his head, but all it does is slips John’s hand further up his leg, drifting to the plane of his thigh. If John even realises the path his hand has taken, he doesn’t say anything or move it back again, all his attention apparently on his own breathing, as it puffs rapidly now from his mouth.

“They’re too far away” Sherlock concludes, willing himself to move from John’s grasp.

He doesn’t though, just leans back slightly into John’s fingers as he pushes them to thread through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. They’re losing sight of their purpose now, John’s breath loud in his ear as he seemingly searches Sherlock’s skin for a reason to stop.

“John –”

Just as he’s about to give John that excuse, the man Sherlock has been trying to watch rises from his seat, leaving his partner to walk the room again. He appears to be heading in their direction, stopping at every other table to share a few words or an embrace with the other men sitting in their booths. In a few moments, the blonde haired gambler will reach their table, and the game will be up.

“John, he’s heading this way” Sherlock warns, preparing himself for conflict.

“Shit,” John whispers into his ear. “Right, hang on”

With that, John grabs both of his arms and Sherlock allows his torso to be turned, now facing the room with his back against the black leather booth. John swears again and swiftly changes position, swinging one of his legs over Sherlock’s knees, so he’s straddling him in the seat. The movement is so quick that he almost falls right off again, so Sherlock grabs a fistful of his absurd t-shirt, his other hand gripping the space below John’s armpit, as he attempts to steady himself using Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Inventive,” Sherlock quips, voice breathier than he intended. “I think he’s just at the next –“

Words die in Sherlock’s mouth as John’s lips meet his jaw, barely there yet full of intention, travelling along the sharp of his chin. He tries to speak again but the mouth pressing below his ear now is too consuming, becoming more purposeful as John kisses a line down the tendon of his throat, fingers once again weaving into his hair.

The man they’ve been stalking all night is saying something in the booth next to them and neither of them pay it any attention. Sherlock finds his head tipping back against the leather backrest, eyes fluttering closed as the hand in his curls falls to his own fist, twisted in John’s shirt. Fingers loosen his own and pull his wrist down to the seat instead, pinning it there as John finds his balance and presses into him, the other hand falling from Sherlock’s shoulder to his chest.

Maybe John’s lost his fucking mind, or he’s just had too much to drink, Sherlock doesn’t care what the reason is. The case is immaterial with teeth lightly grazing his partly exposed collarbone, John’s fingertips stroking his shirt buttons like he wants to prise them open. Sherlock wonders if he’s thought about this before, if John has wanted this all along or if two years of loneliness was simply painful enough for him to miss something he never had. Because Sherlock did. Craved something, an unnameable thing, a familiar touch as he lay bleeding in a Russian cell or swirling a glass of brandy in one of those forsaken back alley dive bars. A thing like this – John hot and wanting in his lap, rocking into him as if the solution to all their problems can be found in the meeting of their bodies.

“John –“

And Sherlock doesn’t want him to stop, despite the many eyes watching them and the ache in his gut from sugary alcohol and stress. Would like nothing more than to give his consent for John to open his shirt buttons, lay hands on him like no one else has, taste his mouth as he so often has thought about.

Yet this isn’t entirely right, not their surroundings or the threat of potential danger now walking towards another door at the edge of the room. As much as the voyeuristic element is thrilling, Sherlock wants this moment for himself, if it’s to happen at all. With great effort, Sherlock brings his hand to John’s cheek and guides it up until their eyes meet. If he had any oxygen left, the desperation in those irises would have taken it away. All the things normally hidden in the shadows of John’s pupils are blown and bright, obvious as he attempts to compose himself in Sherlock’s lap.

“He’s leaving,” Sherlock breathes, swallowing the heart threatening to burst from his chest. “We need to follow him”

John wordlessly agrees, nods his head once, slowly loosening his grip on the wrist and shirt held so tightly in his fingers. Already the defences are reforming, the cold edges icing back into John’s eyes, chin and mouth both setting into tight lines of control. The soldier in him is ever present, able to snap back into the moment and do what is needed without hesitation.

Sherlock wants to kiss him. Use his lips to undo the knots of repression that have so quickly constricted around John again.

“There must be another exit,” John says, removing himself carefully from Sherlock’s lap all too easily. “Let’s go”

So they do, Sherlock following John yet again along the perimeter of the room, their hands clasped tight. They shadow the gambler along a dark corridor at the back of the building, passing doors framed with more velvet curtains, clearly private rooms for hire. The place seems to be deserted but they carry on, picking up their pace as they chase after their suspect. As they round the next corner, the man is there, just about to enter one of the rooms only feet away.

Sherlock pushes John back against the wall, framing his body in the hopes that they haven’t been spotted. It doesn’t work though. They’ve already been seen, the two of them so easily recognisable that there’s no way to hide their identity, even in half darkness.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” The blonde calls, now walking their way. “You’re –“

The man obviously answers his own question and immediately turns on his heels, sprinting down the corridor as Sherlock and John follow suit. It’s surprisingly difficult to run in such stupidly tight trousers but they eventually catch up to him, John overtaking at the last minute to throw himself at the suspect. They both tumble to the floor but John hits it first, knocking his head against the wall with a sickeningly loud thump. Sherlock grabs the assailant from behind, hooking his arms around the man’s torso in an attempt to drag him off John’s unconscious body.

They struggle for only a moment or two before the gambler whistles loudly, calling the attention of the bouncers Sherlock knows are well within earshot. He holds on regardless, waiting until the two much larger men are within striking distance before letting go, holding his hands up in surrender as they fish the phone from his pocket. There’s wet on his lip, blood, likely from the collision. It snakes into the edge of his mouth as he’s manhandled into the nearest room, John’s limp form being dragged in after him.

“Scotland Yard are on their way” Sherlock threatens through his heavy breathing, dabbing at his lip with the edge of his shirt.

“I’ll be long gone by then,” The blonde man sings, closing the door behind him. “Tell Mister Townsend it was fun, but I’m onto bigger and better things”

Sherlock hears the latch of the lock as the three men walk away, leaving them trapped in the dully lit room. Immediately he falls to his knees next to John’s body, frantically checking his pulse and searching for any sign of a more serious injury. Thankfully his head seems fine, likely just knocked out from the impact of concrete against his skull. Sherlock takes in the small room around them. The walls are papered in purple damask, a double bed draped in satin sheets of the same colour sits in the middle, no other furniture but a large chest next to it. He doesn’t need to open the box to know its contents. Judging from the handcuffs hanging from the wall behind the bed, and the ankle restraints at each corner, the room has a very particular use.

Grunting against John’s weight, he picks him up under the arms, carrying him onto the bed and resting his head carefully onto the plush pillows. All there is to do now is wait. Lestrade knows where they are, he and Mycroft are hiding out somewhere not far away, waiting for the go ahead in case they need to raid the club. Eventually they’ll clock on and come to their aid, it’s just a matter of time.

The passing of minutes and hours is something Sherlock is now apt at counting. In Moscow, he’d learned the art of marking precise measurements of time, plotting his escape from the underbelly of an experimental bio lab by recording the movements of the security detail. Exactly three minutes and twelve seconds pass before John wakes again, the panic rapidly rising in Sherlock’s gut quelled by eyes slowly blinking open.

“Take it we didn’t get him then” John concludes, pushing himself up onto his elbows to look at Sherlock, sitting at the bottom of the bed.

“You got him a little bit” Sherlock shrugs, offering a small smile.

“Well, that’s okay then” John huffs a laugh, cracking his neck from side to side.

“We know where he’s going, at least”

Sherlock reaches into the back of his skin tight trousers and reveals a slim pouch. Inside there’s a business card, detailing the name and address of who he believes to be the man’s next target. He tosses the stolen wallet to John, who catches it in one hand and sits up properly to read it.

“It’s a shame we’re mostly law-abiding citizens,” John comments, pulling a few notes from one of the leather pockets. “We could be rich by now with your pickpocketing skills”

“Well, maybe if this whole detective thing doesn’t work out” Sherlock smirks, turning back to face the locked door. “The inspector seems to be taking his time”

The sheets rustle slightly as Sherlock hears John slide his way down to meet him at the bottom of the bed. He sits so close that their knees bump, rubbing his head absentmindedly where it smashed into solid wall.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asks, unable to bring his eyes to John’s face to check.

“Been better,” John admits, his left hand brushing the metal edges of the ankle restraint he’s unknowingly sat next to.

Sherlock waits for the realisation to dawn, as John takes in the room around him, noting the binds on the wall behind them and the lack of any meaningful light source.

“I suppose there are worse places to be trapped” John comments – then, catching Sherlock’s raised brow – “I just mean, it’s comfortable, is all”

It’s miles more appealing than the room full of strangers they’ve just come from, at least. Sherlock can’t argue with that. The bed they’re sat on is temptingly soft, the room itself pleasantly warm and inviting relaxation, despite the suggestive décor and furnishings. For a short time they sit in silence, Sherlock unsure of what to do or say given the events of the last hour.

“Your lip,” John starts, noticing the cut splitting sensitive flesh.

He’s about to open his mouth and profess the triviality of the dried blood there, but Sherlock’s words crumble yet again in his throat. John cups a palm under his chin and presses lightly to the wound with the pad of his thumb, watching for any signs of pain on Sherlock’s face. He shows none, only blinks at the sudden touch.

“Looks okay,” John says, much quieter. “Doesn’t need stitches”

But Sherlock already knows that, and John must realise it too, now staring at his own treacherous hand. Those fingers stay there though, just holding Sherlock in place as he searches John’s eyes for whatever comes next.

“I’m sorry if I went too far, earlier” John’s tongue follows his words against his own bottom lip, the depths of his eyes betraying the insincerity behind them.

“I don’t mind” Sherlock counters, because it’s true.

Not only did he not care that John so ardently wiped out the line they’ve kept between themselves, but he wanted more. Wants more, now, while John is still willing to offer it. And he is, the desire in his steady gaze is formidable, whether the man realises it or not.

“You don’t” John says, not really a question because his fingertips are already tracing down Sherlock’s throat to his chest.

“I never have” Sherlock confesses, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth.

Perhaps that revelation was a step too far. John falters for a moment, his eyes suddenly painted with sadness like he’s grieving for something that never happened. Sherlock brings the knuckles of his closed fist to John’s knee, presses them there for a moment before opening his palm against the patella, tentatively letting his fingers slide upwards.

“Sherlock,” John’s breathing is slow and steady, punctuating Sherlock’s name. “I just hit my head pretty hard, so if I’m misunderstanding –“

Really John can’t be blamed for questioning it, even as Sherlock’s touch reaches his thigh. As much as the doctor has defended his heterosexuality over the years, Sherlock has proclaimed to be uninterested in any affection just as ardently. But his fingers are still travelling along John’s jeans, his palm smoothing flat against denim.

“You’re not” Sherlock shakes his head slightly, looks down because anywhere else is too difficult.

The upper hand is so often his in every situation, always the leader and never out of his depth. Yet the entire night he’s been following John’s forward thinking, physically and figuratively one step behind him at all times. More than that, Sherlock has found himself not minding this role reversal at all, the manageable danger of letting John take charge is intoxicating.

Fingers closing over his own pull Sherlock from his thoughts. With his heart hammering he watches John thread their fingers together atop his own leg, the joining of their hands familiar yet completely different to any time before. This is with intention, with promise, not just a necessary contact but a desired one.

“Then you know,” John says quietly, the vibration of his voice skittering across Sherlock’s neck as he leans into him. “What I want to do to you?”

Sherlock has to bite his own lip, eyelids dropping closed of their own accord as the hand at his chest slips one of his shirt buttons open. He breathes though his nose as John untwines their fingers and frames his face instead, beckoning his gaze upwards. Sherlock meets those honest eyes and tries to reflect the longing he finds there, to show consent with the parting of his lips because words will not come.

Only a second of hesitation, and then John accepts the invitation. Presses his mouth, warm and knowing, against Sherlock’s own. John kisses him like he has indeed wanted it all this time, those many months apart only awakening something that laid dormant, waiting for permission to exist. Every sensation Sherlock thought he didn’t want or need crashes over him in one unrelenting wave. John wastes no time, darting his tongue across the wound on his lip and into Sherlock’s mouth, pushing a hand under the hem of his expensive silk shirt. One of them moans and it’s not clear who, maybe both, details seem irrelevant for the first time, as Sherlock feels himself being pushed back against the mattress.

“You liked this, back in The Den,” John breathes, hovering over Sherlock with one knee beside his hip and the other between his legs. “Letting me take control”

The plush sheets are soft against the back of Sherlock’s head, twisting a little as he arches up into John’s poised body. He tries to reply _yes_ but it just comes out as rough noise, everything he wants to say trapped somewhere in his gut. Rather more desperately than he means to, Sherlock reaches for that mouth again with his own, finding it hot and open, teeth pulling at his bottom lip as John teases and soothes.

“Be a shame to waste an opportunity” John says, and Sherlock follows his eyes to the restraints on the wall behind the headboard.

It’s not purely the shock of John’s suggestion that causes a shiver to crawl down his spine, but also the dark pools of the man’s pupils, large caverns so tempting that Sherlock would agree to almost anything. They remind him of the enticing possibility that had been there at Baker Street – only here, in this room, they’re allowed to explore it, closed off in this entirely different world, away from prying eyes and any sense of normality.

John seems to need audible confirmation this time, circling Sherlock’s wrists with strong hands, but unwilling to bring them further than the mattress above his head without approval. It’s telling that John has managed to read him so well, despite the continents that have stretched between them recently, all the things Sherlock thought he’d kept so well hidden that are apparently common knowledge to the man above him. Every second he was away from Baker Street was spent in a tight knot of self-discipline, commanding dominance over his own wants and needs in order to get the job done. To be able to return, in one piece and as quickly as possible. It had taken too long, and much more fortitude than he had expected to give. The thought of letting go of that resolve, handing it over to John, is more than alluring.

“Better seize the moment then” Sherlock manages, a flush coming to his cheeks at his own breathy tone.

The hunger he sees consuming John’s face makes Sherlock tremble. To be fervently wanted in such a brazen way makes him moan again, both apprehensive and desperate for whatever is coming next. John kisses him deep and slow, with a care Sherlock cannot put words to. With the basic coordination he can manage, Sherlock pushes himself up into a half-seated position, back slumped against the satin pillows. Then his wrists are being guided upwards, John slipping his left hand first into the metal restraint, followed by the right, pressing kisses to his mouth in between.

“Tell me if it’s too much” John whispers into his ear.

Sherlock doesn’t believe it will be, the inability to move his upper body more than a few inches is already pooling heat in his belly. There’s nothing for him to do, here. No role he needs to fulfil or mission he has to complete, nothing to fight against except the tension gathering in his own body. Sherlock doesn’t have to solve any problems, save anyone or make any life changing decisions, choose whether to make someone feel better or worse – all authority has been stripped from him, and all that is left, is John.

John. The only man he trusts completely. The only touch he has ever truly craved. The only person he would allow to do this; straddle him while he’s completely helpless, willingly submissive.

Morning blue eyes never leave his own, as John finishes what he started on Sherlock’s shirt buttons. They are prised from their holes one by one, slowly enough that Sherlock has to clench his jaw to stop himself from letting out a groan of frustration. Mercifully, John doesn’t wait much longer to touch him, mapping the contours of his chest and waist with his lips, tongue circling his navel and sucking at the hollow above his hip bone. Sherlock pulls painfully against his bound wrists, as John presses an open mouth to his clothed cock, hard beneath his trousers.

John peels away from his body, slips off the bed and stands beside him. Sherlock is left bare and straining, deprived in the emptiness around him. For a few moments John simply looks, dragging his gaze over Sherlock as if he wants to consume every part of him. It’s a stare that prickles tiny bumps across Sherlock’s skin and makes him keen his hips towards the now vacant space between them. He watches the muscles in John’s arms and torso as he pulls white cotton over his head, a hushed curse spilling from his own lips as jeans follow the t-shirt to the floor. John wraps a hand around himself and begins to pull at his needy cock, eyes still flicking across Sherlock’s aching body.

“You’re something else,” John says, tousled hair falling across his forehead. “You know that, don’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t, but he can see the truth of it in John’s eyes and the caught lip between his teeth, as he works his hand.

“I thought I could carry on, without this,” He continues, as any composure Sherlock has left rapidly falls away. “But I can’t, I need you too much. Need to touch you, and taste you –“

Sherlock can’t help the guttural noise that comes from his mouth, completely undone by John’s honest confessions. He tugs at his wrists again, letting out sharp rough breaths as the hard edges of the cuffs dig pleasurably into his skin. The line between pain and satisfaction becomes blurry, the sight of John pleasing himself only intensifying the uncomfortable throb of his own cock.

“Please,” He asks quietly. “John, _please_ ”

The emphasis on that last word brings a moan from John’s mouth, the sound something Sherlock wants to keep and replay over and over again. John crawls back onto the bed and pulls Sherlock’s zip through metallic teeth, tugs his trousers and boxers off with efficiency. They’re both naked and laid bare now, and Sherlock finds it isn’t as strange as it probably should be, any trepidation he’d imagined this moment would bring is non-existent.

Instead, his body is impatient and his mind only focussed on the mouth slowly lowering to the glistening head of his cock, John’s tongue swiping at the flushed skin eagerly. Each feeling is new, every touch more consuming than the last, as John gradually pushes his lips down, enveloping the tip in a deliciously soft heat. The mouth around him moves precisely and leisurely, just enough to drive him insane, dancing perilously close to the edge already.

“Fuck,” Is all Sherlock can offer, metal biting at the sensitive skin of his wrists again. “God, John. _John_ –“

The warning is heeded, John withdrawing slowly, lips smacking as he pulls off Sherlock’s cock completely. John’s breaths come hard and fast from his nose, as he pushes a hand into Sherlock’s hair, tugging hard to bring their mouths together, moving to straddle Sherlock again. The frantic pace is welcomed. Sherlock can’t hold out much longer with all the new and overwhelming sensation sparking over him, can feel everything becoming tight and saturated. He pushes his cock against John’s stomach as they kiss, keening for any kind of friction as he becomes drunk with need. John bites at his jaw and neck, wrapping a hand around both of them in unison, his eyes supernova as they try to catch Sherlock’s own with each pull.

“Jesus, you’re so beautiful” John moans, finally capturing Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock feels his lips trembling, some indistinguishable response lost in his struggling lungs. He holds John’s fixed eyes for as long as he can, simultaneously pushing into his hand and pulling away from the wall, seeking every bit of touch he can get.

Another few nearly unbearable moments, and Sherlock sees the room blacken and implode, spilling over John’s hand as he finishes with curses on his tongue. When the tremors ease off, Sherlock pushes it into John’s mouth instead, pulling at the man’s bottom lip with his teeth until he gasps and gasps, coming onto Sherlock’s stomach.

The arms stretched above Sherlock’s head go limp, as he allows his muscles to relax. Feelings peak and fade as he breathes, the weight of John slumped and spent against his chest something he doesn’t yet want to lose.

Unfortunately, he has little choice in the matter. John shifts and takes a pillow out of its case, using it to clean the mess on their stomachs. Then he reaches up to the restraints, clicking open the cuffs again and gently lowering Sherlock’s arms to the bed as if he’s not capable of doing it himself. Of course he is, but Sherlock lets him anyway. Allows John this gentle reassurance, a display of affection to counter the intense burst of power he just held over the man below him.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock quickly replies, flexing the wrist of his right hand before bringing it to John’s jaw. “More than”

Tenderness bleeds from his lips to John’s, gratitude and relief all pressing to soft flesh. Never had Sherlock imagined it would be like this and so quickly, and he sees the same disbelief in John’s eyes too. Really though it shouldn’t be so surprising, they’ve been building towards this for years and the missing days Bart’s rooftop stole from them have only served as a painful interlude in a journey that was already mapped out.

They stay in each other’s arms for a little longer, John massaging the embossed skin at Sherlock’s wrists while he simply watches, unable to look away from the man he would so easily give his life for.

“As much as I want to stay here,” John begins, pulling his body away from the pillow of Sherlock’s shoulder. “I don’t really fancy being stark naked when Greg and your brother show up”

He could be forgiven for completely forgetting about their imminent rescue, but the pair will indeed be on the way by now. Sherlock rolls his eyes and groans, reluctantly reaching for his trousers in a pile at the bottom of the bed. John tosses his red silk shirt over from the floor, pulling on his jeans with a grin Sherlock finds himself reflecting.

The stolen wallet somehow ended up under the bed. Sherlock finds it after a few seconds of John frantically trying to remember what he did with it. They manage to straighten out the bedsheets and smooth out their hair just before the sound of footsteps echo outside. Mycroft and Greg undo the latch, stepping into the room flanked by three other officers, clearly expecting to find the suspect apprehended.

“Where is he?” Mycroft asks, eyes darting from the two of them to the cuffs on the wall, and the missing pillowcase.

Greg picks up on the same clues, but thankfully they don’t seem to lead anywhere in his head. Sherlock explains the events of the evening to the both of them using as little actual information as he can, handing over the business card and watching the blush threatening to creep across John’s cheeks. When he’s finished they share a small smile, neither the inspector or his brother willing to question it.

“So, you didn’t actually solve the case then?” Greg says, a bit too smugly.

Sherlock flicks his eyes to John, lingering at the velvet curtained exit. Freedom is nice, but he almost doesn’t want to leave, can still feel the silk sheets and warm lips on his skin. The cuffs of his shirt conceal the pink wrists underneath, and the want in his body is now just a shadow, waiting for the light of John’s bright desire again. Sherlock can see it, sparkling at the edges of the man’s mouth as he waits for him.

“I think we got what we needed” He says, and follows John through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Deduce what you will about Mycroft and Greg's delayed rescue attempt. I'm not saying anything ;)


End file.
